#MS in Foreign Countries

[enhaflixer]

pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

-

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

-

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

-

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

-

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

-

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

-

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

-

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

-

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

-

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

-

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

-

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

-

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

-

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after 

the end.

fin.

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

[vague-humanoid]

The wife of Kilmar Abrego Garcia has been moved to a safe house after she began fearing for the safety of herself and her three children.

The Department of Homeland Security shared a protective order form 2021 that prominently featured their address to their 2.4 million X followers.

Mr Garcia was mistakenly deported from the US to prison in El Salvador on March 15 - despite having an immigration court order preventing his deportation to his native country over fears he would face persecution from local gangs.

Trump officials have accused Mr Ábrego García of being a member of the transnational Salvadoran gang MS-13, a designated foreign terrorist organisation.

His lawyer denies this.

[reasonsforhope]

"In short: Thailand's Senate has approved a bill legalising same sex marriage in the South-East Asian country.

It will afford same-sex couples practical benefits such as being able to have children through IVF and make emergency medical decisions for their spouse.

What's next? The first weddings may take place later this year, 120 days after the law is announced in the Royal Gazette.

Thailand has become the first nation in South-East Asia to legalise same sex marriage, with the country's Senate approving the landmark bill this afternoon.

The legislation was expected to pass after it cleared the country's House of Representatives in a near-unanimous vote in March.

Despite Thailand's bustling gay bars and prominent transgender community making it a mecca for LGBTQ+ tourists, until now local same-sex couples there have been unable to marry.

The law will take effect 120 days after its announcement in the Royal Gazette, so the first same sex weddings may take place later this year.

Couples who have been waiting years have hailed the move as a historic moment that will afford them rights only reserved for spouses.

A Lifechanging Law

Photos of Anticha and Worawan [including the article picture], dressed in floor-length white gowns and trailed by rainbow flags, getting married at Bangkok's first Pride Festival two years ago went viral, but they are still not legally married.

Now they will be able to change that, and Anticha Sangchai is elated.

"This will change my life and change many Thai people's lives, especially in the LGBT community," she said.

"It is a historical moment and I really want to join with my community to celebrate this moment.

"I want to send a message to the world that Thailand has changed. Even though there are still many issues, this is a big step for us." ...

There were an estimated 3.7 million LGBT people in Thailand in 2022, according to LGBT Capital, a private company which models economic data pertaining to the community around the world.

For the young couple from Bangkok, being able to marry also has very real practical implications.

If they want to have children through IVF, Ms Sangchai says they will need a marriage certificate first.

"I am quite concerned about the time because we are getting older every day, and the older you get the more difficult it is to have a healthy pregnancy," she said.

"So we've been really wanting this law to pass as soon as possible."

Cabaret performer Jena is excited Thailand's laws are finally catching up with the nation's image...

She too had worried about the practical implications of being unable to marry.

"For example, if myself or my partner had to go to hospital or there was an accident that needs consent for an emergency operation, without a marriage certificate we couldn't sign it," she said.

She now wants the government to move forward with a law to allow transgender people to amend their gender on official documents." ...

An Economic Boost?

Thailand has long been famous for LGBTQ tourism and there are now hopes this new law could allow the country to cash in on the aging members of the community.

Chaiwat Songsiriphan, who runs a health clinic for people in the LGBTQ community, said laws preventing same sex marriage were the last barrier holding the country back from becoming a gay retirement hub.

[Note: They do not just mean for rich westerners; Thailand as a gay retirement hub would probably appeal most to and definitely benefit LGBTQ people from throughout Asia.]

"Thailand has an LGBTQ-friendly environment since Thai culture is quite flexible," he said.

"One of my foreigner friends, a gay friend, told me that when he's in his country he has to pretend to be straight … but when he comes to Bangkok he said you can be as gay as you want.

"When we talk about retirement or a long-term stay for the rest of their lives, what people need is … food, good healthcare services, transportation, homes.

"I think Thailand has it all at a very affordable price."

He said it could help give the country a desperately needed economic boost.

"This will have a lot of benefits for Thailand's economy because when we talk about retirement it's people literally bringing all the money they have earned for the rest of their working lives to spend and invest here," he said.

He said he, like the rest of the community, was thrilled by the news.

"It's not about a privilege, it's just equality," he said.

"We are we also humans, so we should be able to marry the one we love.""

-via ABC Australia, June 18, 2024

[pbnbucks]

Nika x fem x Paige where the fem just transferred to UConn from another country or smth so her English is not good and she’s a new freshman so Paige and Nika show her around and flirt with her.

The two older girls come to agreement that they both want fem and always flirt her. They end up confessing one night and it leads to smut where they show her how much they care for her

word count : 1.2k

warnings : smut, cussing, overstim, teasing

summary : they showed you things you never thought you would see, living up to their promise.

the plane ride to uconn consisted of nerves and excitement, you’re from São Paulo, Brazil. when you first got the call from Ellen Herman to come play volleyball for her and the huskies you weren’t never going to think about it but your mother begged and begged for you to take it, and you did so your mother wouldnt worry, the hard part was you had to leave the day before mothers day leaving her and your 2 sisters alone. when you landed there was a bilingual chauffeur to pick you up from the airport and drop you off at the university, everyone greeted you including the athletic teams except the basketball team, they where on the end of the season trip to places like Croatia and Slovenia. which brings you to your next obstacle

its early October, your classes consisted of family consumer science and you picked up extra english classes. you english gotten better over the months as you spent more time with the team and you where able to spend time around more american’s and the team. its wasn’t until the 7th game you became a starter on the volleyball court, but what surprised you even more was the women’s basketball team wearing head to toe basketball issued gear. but thats not what surprised you it was the fact that 2 of the starters for the basketball team came up to you after the game. your first thought was that they were going to walk to somebody else but it gave it away when the rest of the team behind them kept smiling at you and then laughing to each other, as they basically backed you into a corner leaving you no room to escape from the tall muscular girls. they started off by introducing themselves and you introduced yourself, you hoped the conversation would end there but it didn’t, it went way farther then things could imagine. the brunette was the first to speak up after the quiet and awkward encounter. “we wanted to know if you wanted to come to this ice cream place with us so you can see how Connecticut really is” you thank the girls and agree to their idea.

“so where are you from?” the sweet blonde asks as she has been making small talk with you all night. “im from São Paulo Brazil, im guessing your from America but shes not?” you point at the brunette who clearly had a thick accent from a foreign country. “yea im from Zágreb Croatia.” she responds flashing a smile that catches your eye “you have a pretty smile” nika just smirks and give paige a look that makes paige jealous “you have pretty thighs, princess” nika blurts before she even thinks about what shes saying trying to play it off “thanks i guess?” you laugh getting a bit embarrassed from her comment.

you and the two girl have been hanging out for about 3 months now as you recieve a text from nika that said “we want you to come to our dorm princess. we want to show you things you’ve never seen before” at first you thought the girls where talking about Connecticut but they have such different plans on what to do with you. the girls wouldn’t let you say no to them as paige takes it upon herself to open the door for you as you get fully in nika tells you to sit on the couch with them, it only takes two minutes for nika to break the silence “i dont know why you sitting so far away from us ms brazil” you’re startled from her comment considering you weren’t that far and there was no other place to sit “what do you mean theres no other place to sit?” once you say that paige and nika exchange looks as she grabs you by the waist placing you onto her lap “what about right here princess? you like this spot” hoping you could shrug off her comment but she wouldn’t let it go “i asked you a question pretty, when someone asks you something you have to answer them” you try to hide your face as its only been 5 minutes in to her dorm and she already has you blushing and legs shaking “yes i like my spot” you whisper into her ear so you wouldn’t feel even more embarrassed “your spot? so possessive baby” you roll your eyes looking to the blonde with pleading eyes hoping she would save you from your own embarrassment, which doesn’t slide past nika making her smirk not even trying to hide her emotions full of lust “go on baby go sit with paige, shes the nicer one” she helps you get off her lap placing you right on top of paige as paige pushes you on to her lap as she places her large hands on your inner thigh. nika saw this and decided she had enough waiting. she pushes the hair out of your face getting closer to you at face level “you want us to fuck you?” you look to the blonde behind you as she only smiles back at you massaging your inner thigh you nod your head to the girl but she refuses to take it as a answer “i need you to use your words mama. if you dont nobodys going to touch you.” you can feel your arousal already forming a pool as just her accent gets you weak “yes please, i want to”

thats all she needed to pick you up like a toddler and placing you in the edge of the bed stripping you from your clothes revealing all the spots she wanted to see. she rubs her hands all over your stomach as the blonde enters the room but except this time in sweats and a sports bra “your so pretty baby” the brunette says placing a teasing kiss on your lips. she runs her finger through your slick folds leaving you needy wanting more but she declines and makes you wait “cmon baby i wanna hear the reason you got that sexy ass accent” she speaks placing a finger right before your entrance “por favor faça-me sentir bem, eu te imploro” and with that she finally enters her finger into you finally letting go of the breath you didn’t even know you were holding as the long fingers sinks all the way in you slip out a pornographic moan that has nika feeling weak in her stomach as paige comes up next to her rubbing circles on your clit, making your legs begin to shake as nika adds another finger and paige continues the assult on your pussy licking a long stripe up your core making your hand fall to her head pushing her closer. “awww does that feel good baby?” the croatian teases you for how needy your body language is getting, you grind onto her fingers and paiges face, when you feel a knot forming in your stomach. “fuck- im gonna cum” once you say that paige runs her fingers up and down your shaky thighs trying to ease you into your release “oh really? i think you can hold it a little longer” the brunette says proving her point when she said paige was the nice once. nika knows exactly what shes doing as she pushes paiges head closer to your core as your wetness is practically dripping from paiges chin while nika continues to pound her fingers in to you not loosing speed what so ever. “pleasee, i cant hold it any more” you beg for the girl to let you release “what do you think paige should we let her cum?” the blonde nods her head out of sympathy for you as they both put you through a endless amount of teasing all night “go on baby, cum all over paiges face and my fingers.” this time it feels different, you weren’t just cuming, you’re squirting. nika sits there in shock as paige continues to try and get every bit of cum she can moaning onto your clit sending vibrations through your body. “yeaa thats it, such a good pussy” the girl praises as she takes her fingers out of you pulling her body up to kiss you. “if i knew you where going to react like that, i would’ve been the one to eat that pretty pussy princess.”

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

The Israeli military will show Greta Thunberg and other activists footage of the 7 October attacks after a Gaza-bound aid boat was diverted to Israel, the country's defence minister has said.

Early on Monday, the Israeli foreign ministry said that the British-flagged yacht Madleen - operated by the pro-Palestinian Freedom Flotilla Coalition (FFC) - "is safely making its way to the shores of Israel".

All passengers were safe and unharmed, the ministry added, sharing footage of the activists being handed sandwiches and water.

In a statement via his spokesperson, defence minister Israel Katz said that he has instructed the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) to screen footage of the 7 October attacks for those aboard when they arrive at Ashdod Port.

"Antisemitic Greta and her Hamas-supporting friends should see exactly what the Hamas terrorist organisation - which they came to support and act on behalf of - truly is," he said.

"They should see the atrocities committed against women, the elderly, and children, and understand whom Israel is fighting to defend itself."

He commended the IDF for its "swift and safe takeover" of the vessel, and said the Israeli military "will continue its just and moral fight against the Hamas murderers until their defeat, the release of all hostages, and the full restoration of Israel's security".

Israel's foreign ministry said earlier that those aboard the Madleen "are expected to return to their home countries" and that the humanitarian aid aboard the ship would be transferred to Gaza through established channels.

Ms Thunberg was "safe and in good spirits" while en route to Israel, it added, calling the vessel "the 'selfie yacht' of the 'celebrities'".

[ryusuisloveinterest]

Hello! Are your requests still open? If so, then may I ask a Stanley x reader where reader is an international student and xeno's fam is their host family? (you can toss in sum platonic xeno hcs too or smth) 😔😔😔

(YES THIS IS SPECIFIC THIS SCENARHAS BEEN ON MY MIND FOR AGESSS. No I'm not an in this situation I'm just curious on the take of an xreader where instead of being an actual sibling of another character they're a host sibling or sibling figure CAUSE I ALMOST NEVER SEE THOSE IM SORRY FOR DUMPINGG AHHHH)

ALSO IF REQUESTS ARE CLOSED THEN PLS IGNOREE

-🐝

hello🐝 anon! I tried to make it for whatever country or place they came from so I hope you enjoy!🫶🫶

Stanley x Xeno’s Exchange student Sibling💘

Let’s talk your relationship with Xeno first 

He literally decided to be part of the program because he wanted extra help with his work without complaint

But when a very energetic, loud, hyper student came to the door he wanted to throw you in a box and put a return to sender sticker on it 

Surprisingly though, he gets use to the loudness, and even finds it hard to work without it

His once boring office gets turned into a museum of things and pictures you made, consisting of the custom made picture frame of the two of you at a conference he took you to, the random sticky notes saying motivational words like, “keep up the good work bro :D” to a little less motivation with, “if you leave the toilet seat up again I’m gonna smash all of your equipment >:(”, and even a nice green couch you can just come and sit on if you’re ever bored or need help with your homework 

It honestly doesn’t take him long to start seeing you less as a helper and more of an actual sibling

As I’ve said before, I think Xeno has a fine line between his work life and his actual life, so since you were just supposed to be his apprentice he didn’t introduce you to Stanley

But as he’s built a relationship with you, he’d be thinking of ways to introduce the two of you

He decides to do something a little out of the ordinary for himself and you… A GOOD OLD AMERICAN FOOTBALL GAME

I headcanon that Stanley really likes football and is one of those guys with the jersey and yells at the tv

You go to a game with Xeno and you see Stanley sitting and scrolling on his phone 

Xeno introduces you two, explaining who each of you are

“Nice to meet you, Stanley! Xeno talks highly of you!”

“I can say the same for you Ms y/n.”

Ofc Stanley just gets super loud and obnoxious about the game and starts cheering, screaming, and cussing lol

Ofc if you’re foreign or don’t understand football that well you’ll have questions that Stanley’s more than happy to answer

He notices you just randomly cheering with him and getting mad when he gets mad

Then he notices your face, your laugh, and ofc your smile 

After that he starts asking Xeno about you more

“What’s y/n doing today?”

“Is y/n at school right now?”

“Is y/n gonna stop by the lab?”

The same could be said about you too

“How long have you and Stanley known each other?”

“Is Stanley coming over?”

“Do you think Stanley would want some food? I’ll pack extra just in case!”

He really doesn’t think much about it at first

He’s just happy that the two people he cares about like each other 

But he started noticing something when the two of you start hanging out with each other…without him

“Stanley what’re you doing here?”

“Oh y/n said that they wanted to pick strawberries so I thought I’d take them.”

Or

“Where’re you going y/n?”

“There’s this rock band I’ve always wanted to see so Stanley’s taking me!”

That’s when it clicks to him

Xeno goes to you first

“Are you and Stanley in a relationship?”

“Pfft I wish”

Que you making him sit there and letting you rant on how much you like Stanley while you’re kicking your feet and twirling your hair

Then he asks Stanley

“Y/n? I mean they are very beautiful, not in a weird way ofc, but we aren’t together. Why? Did they say something?”

He’ll take that as a yes

Xeno literally just puts you two together one day and just spills the beans for you two

All he asks is that you both take care of each other and if Stanley does anything bad he swears he’ll never breathe again-

Your relationship didn’t really change much when you became a couple 

He definitely gets more touchy feely though 

You’ll be standing there literally just minding your own business and you’ll feel an arm sneak across your waist

Or you’ll be chilling on the couch together and he’ll do the cheese yawn and wrap his arm around you but he makes it seem like the hottest thing ever

He tries to take you out every week or every other week

When you come home, standing on your porch and you and Stanley are tryna say bye to each other, one kiss normally leads to two which normally leads to a small make out session 

This queues Xeno flicking on and off the porch lights, still irritated that he has to continue to pull you two off of each other 

You, Xeno, and Stanley still have your little hang outs though and Xeno doesn’t have to scrape you and Stanley apart

You and Stanley do feel bad cause he has 3rd wheeled sometimes, you two have even thought about making a plan for him to go out with someone

Stanley loves your voice, whether you’re gossiping with him or just talking about your day he can listen to you days on end

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Gwi-Nam (1/4)

Word Count: 3.9k

I remembered that I actually wrote this whole thing for fun several months ago. Might as well use this for an easy peasy ease back into society.

R stared at the email on her phone, her brain scrambling to make sense of the Korean typo in the email. Although she stood in the main hallway, gathering many stares from the native Korean high school students, the posted signs were not the most helpful.

She took in her surroundings once again, adjusting her old and well-loved frog backpack, loaded with stationery. The hoard of students desperate to make it to class on time sometimes collided, and R was astounded at the sheer student population of the public high school. Unlike from her home country, the high school seemed well-funded and quite modern, even compared to the college she was actively attending at home — which had given her this opportunity abroad. The atmosphere made R somewhat anxious.

R sighed, deciding the best course of action — after a few failed attempts of grabbing a frantic student’s attention — was to go to the right and follow past the principal’s office. R’s entire goal was to find the teacher’s lounge. And although one might think to ask the principal, she was terrified of making a poor first impression. 

The hallway had grown vacant and silent, only the sound of her footsteps echoing. She noticed her tattoo cover-up sleeves were scrunching slightly, and while walking, looked down to adjust it.

She suddenly heard loud, quick footsteps come from behind. Just as she went to glance over her shoulder, a hard shoulder smashed into her back and knocked R forward onto the ground. She scraped her knees, which created instant panic. As she scrambled to sit and inspect her knee, there was a cruel snicker.

R scowled, recognizing the tear in her leg sleeve. Luckily, R was always analy OCD and overprepared, and knew she could clip it with a pin and hide it under her knee-length black skirt. 

Two shoes stopped in front of her. R looked up, unamused. A student who looked far more mature than his peers by a few years toward her with black banks and a Korean-styled mullet. As she was still adjusting from her native tongue to Korean, his words did not register at first.

R’s scowl disappeared as she intently focused on the words.

“Since when does our school let in foreign [unknown]?” he sneered.

R blinked, only assuming it was foul language spitting from his mouth, and rolled her eyes. “You are making a bad first impression on a new teacher.” She intentionally left out the assistant.

She watched as his breath and stance stiffened. “Shit.” He glanced her over, a slight smirk growing. “The school must be desperate if they took in a foreign [whore] with fake hair and tattoos.”

R’s eyes widened and her cheeks darkened, pulling the dark brown wig over her head to hide her brightly dyed hair. She finally brushed herself off and pinned the sleeves together. R returned to her feet, only then recognizing the slight burn in her knees.

“Listen, kid. How about you mind your business and I’ll mind mine? I can already tell you’re an asshole, so I’d recommend you get to your class before I bring you with me to the principal’s office for harassment.”

The student sneered and crossed his arms. There was a momentary tense staredown before he seemed to loosen up, clicking his tongue and walking off — but not without snatching one of her decorative to-do list papers. R sighed, not caring enough to pursue her to-do list. She already seemed fairly unprofessional with her frog backpack, so a pink sticky note with Hello Kitty on it was better off left out of sight.

Despite the aggravating experience, R continued on her way, plastering a smile on her face. Eventually, she found the teacher’s office empty. However, a teacher named Ms. Park had left a name on the door with R’s name and the classroom number. R sighed with relief, heading off to the classroom.

R burst through the classroom door. Ms. Park had been speaking, but all went silent except for the muttering of students. R was nervous, but as time passed, the classroom became as familiar as any other.

~~~

R blasted her somewhat generic pop playlist since the old songs from the 2000s never grew old to her. She was chowing down on her boxed lunch, which was cutely styled like everything else: a Hello Kitty lunchbox, as she succumbed to capitalistic desires of that brand easily. 

The concrete, half-built foundation was where she went during the lunch period to get some peace and quiet. During the semester, construction had been placed to a halt except for weekends, as there were frequent noise complaints from school staff and students. To R, it was her perfect hide-away location from prying eyes.

As she finished up her homemade kimbap — an accomplishment R was proud of — Shake It Off began echoing from her phone. R grinned, and she stood up. She sang poorly, but sang with it regardless, even incorporating some equally poor dance moves during the chorus.

R halted mid-song as her stomach had a sharp, sudden pain, hissing loudly and grasping her stomach. She cursed under her breath.

“Eh? How unathletic are you? How embarrassing.”

R gasped in fright, swerving to face the onlooker. She sighed out of relief, recognizing the infamous rule-breaker from her classroom (although he rarely attended class). R had a neutral opinion of the boy, as he was notoriously the “bully’s gopher,” but hadn’t ratted her out or spread any rumors about her unprofessional underbelly. 

“At least I’m more athletic than the gym instructor,” R shot back, noticing that the stomach pain had left.

Gwi-nam’s eyebrows raised, adorning a cheeky grin. He often put up an air of unapproachability, but due to R’s semi-authority, it seemed he neither cared to intimidate nor to fake manners. 

“You could get fired for saying something like that.”

“I could get fired for a lot of things, kid.”

R went over and sat back on the cement steps, furrowing through her lunchbox and sipping on an internationally imported Capri Sun. Gwi-nam leaned on the crudely placed metal rails, leering over the woman. He eyed the package curiously, as well as the rest of the cutified objects.

“I’m amazed someone like you got transferred here,” Gwi-nam scoffed. “There’s nothing professional about you.”

“My college GPA, past internships, letters of recommendation, and my polyglot status say otherwise. Besides, Ms. Park says I bring a modern level of cultural diversity.”

“God, you’re full of yourself.”

“So what?” R chortled, slurping up the rest of her juice. “I deserve to be a little self-confident. I worked hard to get here.”

Gwi-nam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. What the hell are doing out here anyway? I bet you’re too weird to make any friends.”

“Not at all. I just like to eat alone,” R insisted. “Why are you here, kid? Don’t you have anywhere else to be or lunch to be eating?”

“I don’t have friends. Just people I hang out with.”

“Hm. Well, how about some bribery to get you back with your people? Here’s a chocolate bar.”

~~~

R handed the student sitting next to her a tiny container of cut canteloupe and some chopsticks. “At this rate, you owe me an entire hot pot.”

Gwi-nam snatched the bowl, immediately digging in hungrily. “No way,” he grumbled with a full mouth. “That would count as taking advantage of a student. Besides, with how fat you’ve gotten, you obviously have some food to spare.”

R clicked her tongue angrily, swatting Gwi-nam’s neck. “How dare you comment on a woman’s wait like that. With those manners, it’s no wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

The comment made her feel somewhat insecure regardless. Gwi-nam wasn’t wrong. R had been wearing baggier shirts recently, as no matter how much she exercised or ate healthily, it hardly impacted the small stomach bump she had developed in the last two months. The only explanation was that it was from poor sleep, stress, and overworking. 

“I’m too busy for that.”

“Too busy because you’re beating up some helpless classmate, right? Don’t think I don’t notice when your knuckles are all messed up. You’re called the bully’s gopher for a reason.”

“You fucking bitch,” Gwi-nam sneered,“ don’t call me that. Just because you know a fucking language doesn’t mean I won’t kill you.”

R sent a glare before snatching back the cantaloupe from him. “God, you’re rude and sensitive.”

“As if. Now give me my food back.”

She rolled her eyes. She very much assumed he had home problems and had taken some level of pity on him since the boy showed up in the building every day since their first encounter and had neither friends nor food. But after enduring an all-nighter, she didn’t feel like putting up with his foul attitude.

R shoved her food back into the lunchbox and stood up. As she did so, Gwi-nam’s hands latched onto R, causing her to almost trip. Gwi-nam shouted in irritation, but the sensation of standing had made R feel dizzy enough not to notice. Black dots clouded her vision and she stumbled forward slightly.

“Hey!” Gwi-nam exclaimed, grabbing and pulling her back to the step. 

R sat, and it felt as though her stomach vibrated with agony. She let out a hiss of pain and laid back, the lunchbox long forgotten. R gasped and rubbed her stomach, feeling a sudden leaking sensation. It was as though her stomach was hollowing out.

“What’s wrong?” Gwi-nam huffed, aiding in lowering her slowly onto the steps. 

“I… I don’t know — I feel…”

“What the fuck —!”

R was confused, focusing on nothing but the sharp cramps. But as Gwi-nam scampered away, R twisted her head up to see what he was looking at. R screeched as she noticed a waterfall of bloody blobs leaking from her white skirt. R reached for her phone but barely felt the ability to move from the cramps. It was as though her period was on blast.

“Call a fucking ambulance!” R shrieked, to which Gwi-nam clumsily withdrew up from his pocket. 

He called 119, but nothing other than confusion was displayed in his expression. R heard the muffled voice of an operator, to which Gwi-nam stuttered in reply,“ I - I need an ambulance at the front gate of Hyosan High.” Another few seconds passed before Gwi-nam spat out a few stuttered descriptions of the emergency. 

He pocketed the phone before grabbing R’s arms and tugging her up. R grunted, a few tears sliding down her cheek. When R’s legs gave out, Gwi-nam scoffed in annoyance and scooped her up, trying to disregard the blood that stained his jacket.

R grasped onto him for dear life, stuttering,“ What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, stupid?”

A few minutes later, Gwi-nam arrived at the front gate at the knick of time. He flinched at how loud the sirens were as the ambulance pulled up. Nurses rolled out and helped get R into the back, with Gwi-nam deciding to get in the back.

~~~

“Ms. R, it appears you had an intense miscarriage,” the doctor informed the woman, staring at the clipboard. “You were being too hard on yourself during the pregnancy.”

R paled and shivered. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know you were pregnant?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry then. However, you should be able to head home now. Your boyfriend is waiting outside.”

“He’s not my…” R mumbled, watching the doctor walk off. 

The nurses helped R to her feet. She was thoroughly cleaned, adorning nothing but the white robe. However, with the state of her old clothing, they had been discarded with instructions to head straight home and change. R slipped on her shoes and shuffled weakly to the open doorway.

His head bobbed sleepily, Gwi-nam was sitting by the door. R wiped away her tears and softly shook his shoulder. R was surprised he had waited, as by the time everything was okayed, the sun had set. Ms. Park had called at some point, but R would deal with the repercussions of a missed afternoon session and after-school office hours when she got home.

“Gwi-nam,” R called.

His head shot up and a snort escaped. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed. He rose, immediately eyeing her up and down. “What happened? The sons of bitches wouldn’t let me go in to see you.”

R chuckled, insecurely grasping at her stomach. “It was… just a stomach ulcer that got stuck. They had to get rid of it, that is all. I’m alright.”

Gwi-nam’s shoulders instantly relaxed. “Eh? All that blood for an ulcer?”

“It’s been growing for two months now.” R glanced around. “You should head home now. Let me get you something from the vending machine. It’s not much, but —“

“You were the one in the hospital,” he gruffly mumbled. “Besides, you were the one who said I owed you a hot pot.”

“Nonsense. Your parents are probably waiting for you.”

He snorted obnoxiously. “No, they’re not. So, let’s go.”

Gwi-nam grabbed her arm and started dragging her down the hall to the exit. R protested but with his tight, unrelinquishing hold, she gave in and joined him at a nearby convenience store. After some fuss between them, Gwi-nam was able to take what she grabbed and pay for the food together. R was as grateful as she was surprised by the student’s kindness.

When they sat at the window, R inquired quietly,“ Are you sure your parents aren’t waiting for you?”

“As if. My dad’s probably off at work while my mom’s fucking her new boyfriend in a hotel.” R frowned, to which Gwi-nam snapped,“ Hey, don’t fucking look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” she replied. “I’m upset. You deserve better people in your life.”

Gwi-nam tried not to show that the comment had taken him aback, covering it up with a glare and a scoff. However, despite his best cover-up, R noticed how blood rushed to his cheeks. R sent him a sweet smile, unaware of just how impacted Gwi-nam was.

~~~

The door to the classroom slid open loudly, and without looking, R stated,” It’s not like you to be so early for our sessions, Cheong-san.”

When R received no reply, she looked up. She was taken aback to find Gwi-nam standing at the entrance, harboring an unsure and anxious expression with his backpack shouldered. R tilted her head and sent a smile.

“Gwi-nam, come sit. How can I help you?”

“I need help with English, obviously.”

R chuckled as the man plopped into the seat next to hers, backpack on the floor. “I assumed. I was more so asking what you need help with for English.”

“Oh. Uh, with… the homework.”

R found it endearing how nervous he was, glancing constantly at the door. She knew he would rather be caught dead than at a study session, but was incredibly proud of his courage. Gwi-nam pulled out the paper. The class was assigned various Robert Frost poems to decipher. Gwi-nam had been assigned to Stopping by Woods. And instead of just using a translator, Gwi-nam came to R.

“Do you need help with the grammar functions?” R inquired.

Gwi-nam nodded, grabbing a pen. R began explaining the concepts and switching words to make the sentences more comprehensible to a foreign speaker. Gwi-nam was surprisingly attentive until a ding came from R’s phone.

R glanced briefly at the notification, noticing the time. “Ah. I have a scheduled student appointment in a few minutes, so I have to cut this short. Can I pen you in for next Monday?”

“Eh? Why?”

“So that you can come again. If you do, I’ll even bring you a snack. How does three-thirty sound?”

Gwi-nam shoved his notes back in begrudgingly. “Whatever,” he muttered, not meeting R’s eyes.

“Great! See you then. Get home safe, Gwi-nam.”

He didn’t reply, quickly shuffling into the hallway. R’s heart warmed, and a part of her felt somewhat proud that she was making an impact on her student’s life to some capacity.

~~~

R awoke with a gasp, clasping at her bedsheets. It took not a moment after for her alarm to go blaring in her ears. She immediately shut it off and focused on regaining her breath. 

Everything was going well in Korea. Work, friends, lifestyle, school (as exhausting as it was to be doing college at the same time as her transfer abroad) — all except the overlying issue.

R had managed to attract a stalker. 

It started small, and she was convinced it was a student of hers. She constantly felt watched when nobody was around. Things would go missing from her bag or desk. Then one day, while she was in the office on her own, she glanced over and saw a shadowed figure staring through a crack in the door.

That’s when things seemed to escalate, especially the paranoia. She became more organized with her things and knew when things would disappear. She carried a safety weapon at all times. Sometimes, when a hooded man followed her for a stretch, she’d break for a run.

And then things escalated again — one day, the hooded man ran, too.

That was when, after calling Ms. Park in distress, they went to the police together. R knew that Korea tended not to take cases like her’s seriously, and it’s not as though she knew how to talk to a police officer that well.

With thorough convincing from Ms. Park, they kept an eye on the neighborhood R lived in from time to time. But that hardly seemed to do any good, because that was when R noticed that hooded man outside her apartment building. And then outside her apartment.

R invested in every home safety feature. Door cameras, motion-detecting lights, and a silent break-in alarm if it came to it.

She was terrified and was considering moving, to say the least. Calling the police was a lost cause since they “couldn’t do anything with the footage” and “a crime hadn’t happened yet.”

So R lived in fear. The stalker had even invaded her nightmares.

When R grabbed her phone, she noticed that one of her bear-shaped sticky notes was beside the phone. She went through her notifications before she roused herself. And only then did she notice the content of the sticky note.

Written in messy, almost intelligible Korean, was written ‘The cops can’t do shit.’

R shrieked. She noticed her underwear drawer was ajar. She noticed that her lights had been unscrewed. And the silent alarm hadn’t been triggered. R was a mess getting ready for work, taking photos of the various evidence. And although she tried to compose herself on the subway, she was still a wreck when she got to campus.

As she walked past the school gates, she gasped when a fist punched her shoulder suddenly. R veered her body toward the culprit, recognizing Gwi-nam immediately. He wore a casual expression.

“Gwi-nam,” R stated, recovering from her shock – and momentarily forgetting her troubles.

The student clicked his tongue, motioning to his head. “Your hair is falling off, teacher.”

“Ah!” R, embarrassed, readjusted the wig furiously. “Better?”

His nostrils flared and he eyed her up and down. He nodded.

“Thank you. I hope to see you in class later.”

R walked away, feeling her student’s eyes follow her intensely.

Only then did the panic come back. She was in a rush, greeting students only briefly until she arrived at the teacher’s office. R wrapped her arms around Ms. Park from behind, who jolted in shock.

“R!” she exclaimed. 

“Help.”

R released her and handed the now attentive Ms. Park her phone. The woman scrolled through the photos, growing paler by the second. She handed the phone back.

“You can���t stay there anymore.”

“I know that — but my landlord won’t accept it as a reason to break the lease. My credit score will be destroyed.”

“Fuck the credit score!” Other teachers glared, causing Ms. Park to clear her throat and compose herself. “You have to move out today. I’ll help you after class.”

“My assignment will be late.”

“R. This is not up for negotiation. So stop worrying and let’s leave this for after school.”

She nodded, blinking away the blurred tears. She sat at her desk, rummaging through her items quickly. Ms. Park nudged her, a twinkle in her eye.

“You know, you’re out here doing miracle work for our students. I was checking class B’s overall grades, and I found that On-jo has gone from a D+ to a B-. And even better, Gwi-nam somehow went from failing to a B+. I’m sure you’ll get a bonus from the principal for all your hard work at the end of the school year.”

R smiled, some of her uneasiness lifting off her shoulders from the news.

~~~

Much to R’s dismay, it quickly became apparent that R had forgotten to pack a lunch. She had grabbed her lunch box, but the contents were nonexistent. Thus, R knew she’d have to head down to the cafeteria vending machine grab some carbohydrate-filled junk, and break the bad news to Gwi-nam.

On her way, she noticed Gwi-nam leaning on a wall on his phone. R hummed, approaching. Gwi-nam immediately noticed, eyes glued to her figure. R paused in front of him, fumbling with her fingers.

“Well, Gwi-nam, I… woke up late this morning, so I didn’t pack a lunch. Do you have money for the vending machine?”

“Eh? Late? How unprofessional.”

R rolled her eyes. I’ll take that as a yes. Just make sure you eat.” R spun to head over to the cafeteria before pausing. “Oh, one more thing. I’m proud of you and the progress you’ve made in class, Gwi-nam. I hope you know that.”

She walked over to the cafeteria, not noticing how the student gulped and his cheeks grew red, unable to tear his gaze away from the woman.

The cafeteria was crowded and R struggled to evade students. She replied to greetings from students and eventually made it to the vending machine. R checked her phone as a goofy lunch wrap slowly unraveled. Alas, the lunch period was already fifteen minutes through.

The wrap was nearly loose, sliding down the front. It did so slowly, and R nearly screamed when she realized it was about to stop moving.

R had had a bad enough day and kicked the machine. Just like that, the wrap plopped down. As R grabbed it, the noise level in the cafeteria skyrocketed. R swerved to observe the commotion and was unprepared for what she saw. A hoard of students were flying through the glass entrance, until students suddenly slammed it shut, locking out a small group. Screams echoed, and despite the unknowing threat, R dashed toward the entrance, shoving her wrap into her skirt pocket.

And that was when another hoard approached. Students covered in blood ran at the group, and although they tried to run, the students caught them. Blood spewed against the glass, and R shrieked. Although R was frozen in place, everyone around her was running amock in panic from the sudden brutal attack. 

R stood just on the other side of the pane, not far from the front door. Students ran, and then so did the blood-covered students. The doors went crashing open, and R’s life flashed before her eyes as a student she immediately recognized pounced at her.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

hey! I see your posts about immigration, especially it being decreased under the new administration, and wonder what you feel the dangers are that immigrants pose?

Legal immigration? Very little. Illegal immigration? Tons. Rapes, murders, welfare fraud, terrorism (remember all these people being let across the border were, for the most part, released into the country unvetted and never tracked), increased gang acticity (MS-13, TdA, and other gangs are almost exclusively made up of and/or run by illegals) human trafficking (60% of the children that are brought into the country come with adults who aren't related to them. we have 400,000 children that came across the border that we lost track of and most of them, if they're still alive, are most likely being sex trafficked), slavery (I think it was two or three years ago that we found a bunch of illegals being used as slave labor on a farm in the US). And before you go "but that's happening to the illegals!", yes. Illegal immigration harms Americans and illegals alike. Illegals are mostly trafficked across the border by cartels. Their journeys here are perilous and women and children who make them are routinely subject to sexual abuse by the people trafficking them across the border. Oftentimes they get close to the border and are told, in addition to the thousands of dollars they already spent, they now owe thousands more. If they can't pay, they are either killed, sold into indentured servitude, or sold for sexual purposes.

There are also the economic factors to consider. Many illegals don't pay taxes and work for well below minimum wage. They send their money out of the country and into foreign hands, so that money never reenters the US economy the way citizens' money does. Every job held by an illegal is a job that won't be held by an American, increasing unemployment. And yes, Americans will very much "do those jobs" as long as they're being paid real wages.

And then there's the cultural factor of importing masses of people from foreign cultures that are largely incompatible with western liberal democratic cultures. Granted, we don't have as big of a problem with that as the Europeans do since South American and North American cultures have more in common than European and Middle Eastern, but the people who come here illegally aren't the cream of the crop where they come from. They're often uneducated, unskilled workers that immediately become a drain on our already overstrained welfare system.

I got to see the town next to the one I grew up in destroyed in real time over a period of about 15 years because of a mass influx of Guatemalan illegals. What was once a well off New York City suburb became almost a slum. Businesses closed. It wasn't safe to be out at night. The streets were teeming with unwashed masses that spit and pissed on the sidewalk. Violent crime went up. Vandalism went up. Drug dealers moved in. It got to the point where people would drive 30 minutes out of their way to catch a train so they didn't have to commute to the city using the train station in that town. There were some good people included with the trash, but even they were contributing to the problem. Me and my dad, before it got really bad, were at a restaurant (one that my dad had been going to since he was a child and that closed about a year after the owner retired and turned it over to the guy I'm about to talk about) and we were ten feet away from the Guatemalan bartender talking to a middle aged white couple about how they were going to smuggle the rest of his family into the country. They were talking about flying them up to Canada and crossing the border up there. This guy was nice and friendly, well dressed and clean. Our family was on a first name basis with him and he always talked with us when we went to eat there. But he was still paying people to bring in more illegals. And he wasn't ready to run a business. We moved out of NY before the restaurant closed, so I don't know what happened to him afterwards, but the town never recovered despite efforts over the years to revitalize it. You can't revitalize something when the people that live there don't care or don't know how to maintain a nice, American suburban town.

Illegal immigration, especially mass illegal immigration, helps no one. It only causes harm.

[sleepinghypnos]

ITZY Yuna & Chaeryeong x Male Reader (OC)

Tags: Smut

Genre: Cheating, Threesome (kinda?), Facefuck, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Female Idol x Male Reader.

People view you as one of the outstanding bodyguard in the industry, many labels hired you because of your efficiency and strict rules on protecting the client. 

But you don't stay in a single label for too long. The longest you've been with your client is a month and you'll go with another K-pop group not long after your schedule. 

You got call from your security agency, well from the president herself. She told you to come to the office in the afternoon and so you did.

You knocked on the door and a woman greeted you with a smile. The President's Secretary, she showed the way and you saw the woman who called you. Ms. Park Eun-ji.

"Oh, you're here! Sit down." she said and you bowed as you greet her. "Good afternoon Madam!"

"So, we have a hiring request from JYP. They said they want a bodyguard for ITZY, it looks like the number of sasaeng stalking the girls have doubled in the past. They were worried about the safety of their idols thats why they contacted us." She said, "That is the reason why i decided to send the "Guardian" to help them.”

You chuckled in your mind because your name Kim Suho can be translated into 'Guardian'

"I don't have any problem working with anyone madam." 

"It's a deal then, you'll work with them and please make sure they are safe from those stupid miscreants." 

"You can start tomorrow in the morning, make sure you are not late. You can leave now." Miss Park dismissed you, of course you bowed again before leaving. 

–

You got up because of the alarm, it's your first day being the bodyguard of ITZY. You packed your things including clothes and other necessities. 

On the way to the designated location of the client, you read the information regarding the said group. ITZY became a ‘Monster Rookie’ because they won their first music show, eight days after their debut, since then their fame has been accumulating until the stage in the foreign countries opened for them, as they muster fame they also gain crazy fans that stalked them to their own home. 

Your mission now is to protect them, it is not new to you since you’ve been doing this for years now, it’s been a long ride and you arrived in the private home that JYP allocated them. There’s two guards in the gates, they have two manager here as well. 

“Good morning!” you greeted the guards and they let you enter the premises. The girls are waiting for you in the front door. They have smiles in their faces, it looks like they are happy about having a personal bodyguard with them. 

“Good morning, Oppa!” they greet you simultaneously. 

"Good morning! My name is Kim Suho, i'm going to be with you indefinitely. I'll be in you care!" You greeted them back and they proceed to go inside the house because it’s still early in the morning. Before you went inside you made sure that the surrounding was clear first and nothing seems out-of-place. You have a room for yourself here in the house, as you are their bodyguard you need to be with them all of the time even if their work is already over. Only the managers are allowed to go home. 

The girls have a photoshoot later in the morning, all of them were preparing for it. Since you are already prepared for the day, you are just waiting for the girls to finish their breakfast and wait for them to get ready. 

“Oppa do you have a girlfriend?” Chaeryeong asked, you shook your head as an answer. “I told you he doesn’t have any!” Ryujin said while lightly tapping her co-member Chaeryeong’s shoulder. 

“Does any of you is in a relationship?” i asked to just make conversation with them. 

"Aside from Yuna and Ryujin Unnie all of us are single." Chaeryeong replied. 

"Does your boyfriends aware about your situation?" They nodded as an answer. 

…

The ITZY members are already prepared and ready to go for their photoshoot. The managers put the things they need in the van, you noticed how Yuna kept on looking at you. 

She's been like that after breakfast. Looking at you secretly and she taught you didn't know. The managers are in the other van and you accompany the girls in theirs. 

The Vans that the Korean Celebrities and Idols usually use has partition. The driver seat won't be able to see the passengers. 

It makes the artists and idols more comfortable during the ride. You are seated in the back of the van and coincidentally, Yuna is seated beside you. 

"Are you okay? You've been looking at me since earlier." You paused. "Is there anything thats bothering you?"

She didn't answer but she suddenly put her hands on your crotch. "Sana Unnie said that yours is really big." She whispered in your ear and her hand keeps on feeling your semi erect cock in your pants.

This girl really is naughty. I felt a familiar feeling when she brought my cock out and started stroking it. Yuna knelt infront of you, the space inside the van is spacious enough for her to kneel. "This is not big. It's HUGE!" When she had a closed-up look on your cock.

Yuna didn't hesitate to put your rod inside her mouth, the idol started bobbing her head while making sure that the other members don't notice it. 

Yuna doesn't have many experience because you feel it. "You are not used on big dicks are you?" As you cupped her cheek to tell her to stop. 

The ITZY member nodded. "My boyfriend's isn't even close with yours!" 

And with that you snapped. You hold the poor girls head and impale her throat with your dick making her choke on it. 

Only half of your dick is enough to make this little slut choked. Her eyes started rolling back and she's drooling all over your balls. 

You didn't even bother looking at the other members because all of them has headphones on. 

"gwock.. gwock.. gwock.." gagging sound filled the back of the van, you didn't even give any fuck if they are eavesdropping or not. 

Yuna keep bobbing her head and using her tongue to lick your tip, you feel like you’re already cumming. So you hold her head once again and pushed it against your dick letting your cum explode inside the idols mouth. 

"Where's your phone?" You asked. She pointed at her purse and reached for her phone in it. She gave it to you and open the camera and started recording. 

"You're a cheating little slut aren't you?" Yuna nodded while her mouth is still full of your cum. "Show it to me, and swallow all of it" you commanded and she obeyed. 

The idol showcased the cum in her mouth and swallowed it, she even showed her mouth after swallowing it. 

Yuna licked clean your rod and went back to her seat beside you. She's now watching her own video giggling like a little girl who got what she wanted. 

"I'm going to send this to Twice Unnies!" She said and you are not even fazed about it because you know those girls will like that video. 

You already became their bodyguard once, and you know how filthy their minds is. 

–

The van arrived at the photoshoot location, the schedule for today is for their upcoming comeback. Well, they have multiple song released in the past months but what can they do when the people adores them. 

The ITZY members already inside and making preparation for the photoshoot when you notice someone outside the building, the person is in all black fashion, you conclude that he's taking pictures of the girls inside the place.

You went inside the building and find your way through outside again and to that person’s location. "They are adorable isn't?" You spoke and our guy jolted because of fright. 

You immediately grab the guy in the neck and immobilize him. "Who are you?" But you didn't get a response so you took the liberty to take his hood off and see who he is. 

Well, would you look at that, He's one of our prime suspects of stalking, this miscreant has been stalking the girls in three different occasions, I know because of the files given by Miss Park  

"Don't even bother escaping. I've been catching scumbags like you ever since I became a bodyguard." You told the guy and the horror in his eyes were noticeable, you just smiled at him while waiting for the police to arrive. Minutes later sirens filled the quiet surrounding that you were in, the police took the stalker and thanked me for what i did. 

The girls was disturbed by the sirens and came out of the building. Worry is plastered in their faces. 

"Someone was taking photos of you guys earlier. I just apprehend him and called the police to take care of it. You can go back now!" You assured them. "Thank you, Oppa!" Chaeryeong said while the other members just nodded. "It's the guy who took a picture of you while you're sleeping. You don't need to worry about that happening again" you tap her shoulders twice and lightly push her inside. 

–

The scheduled photoshoot is over and they are going to another location to shoot some of the scenes in their comeback. Only Yuna and Chaeryeong left out of five of them

The whole ride was quiet since both of them are tired. Even you was tired for them, they keep posing here and there to get shit done. 

We entered the house and let them release some of the tiredness they experiencing. "Wash yourselves and get to bed early, i'm going to stay on guard." You told them and they did it. Chaeryeong look at me. "Oppa, i want to talk to you. Please come to my room after 30 minutes." 

Is she still bothered by that stalker?

I just nod and let her go by herself. I sweep through the house to make sure again that nothing is out-of-place. I locked the doors, the ITZY members knows the passcode of the house so it doesn't matter. 

Thirty minutes came and i walk to the direction of Chaeryeong's room. I knocked on the door and the idol opened the door for me. 

She's beautiful… you said inside your head. 

She's still in her bathrobe, and her hair was free falling. Looks like she just finished her bath. 

(Photo not connected to the scene.)

"Oppa! You are right on time." She said, and pulled me in her room and guide me to sit on her bed. "I really want to talk to you about what happened earlier" 

"I-i'm just grateful that the stalker was caught in action and i'm also relieved because that fucker took a picture of me being ugly, i want to punch his face into pulp!!"

You chuckled because you find her whining adorable. 

"I'm just doing my job as a bodyguard and who said that you’re ugly? Are they blind or something?" You responded and you saw how she became flustered on your remark. 

"Doing your job? Does your job also include facefucking Yuna?"

You were stunned, you thought no one noticed but you're so wrong.

"It's not just me, all of the unnies know what the two of you were doing, but we didn't say anything because it looks like Yuna enjoyed what you did to her." she said while laughing, she also showed me the group chat of ITZY and the messages of the other members made my rod grow uncontrollably. 

"Opp - i mean, Daddy i want what Yuna had. I want it too!" 

"Daddy?" You tilted your head because of what she said.

"An idol is not as innocent as you might think you know. I got one boyfriend in the past and we did have sex before i debut but he got jealous of other guys liking me as an idol so i broke up with him." She's caressing my body while she talks about her past. "As our group gain recognition, of course we also got the attention of perverts who makes deepfakes of us and other idols, some of them writing erotic scenes, I found a story that has me as the material. I find it hot and sexy for some reason.”

She took off my suit and polo. 

"I was even portrayed as submissive slut, and maybe they were right. So Daddy, i want you to do everything you want to me."

She kneeled down and began unbuckling my belt, she pulled my pants together with my boxer into my knees. 

"I knew it! It's bigger than the one in the video." Amazed by the massive cock infront of her. 

"If i'm Daddy then what are you?" You cupped her cheeks and make her look at you. 

"Your submissive slut? Cocksleeve? I can be whatever you want me to be daddy!"

"If you are a cocksleeve and what are you waiting for? Suck it!" You commanded her. She put your cock in her mouth and just like Yuna and the other female idols you've been with she also can't get past half of your dick. 

Gagging sound filled her room, and you are ruthless this time around. You rest her head on the side of the bed and begin fucking her mouth like it's a pussy. 

"mmgh… gwock… mmgh… gwock…" her gag reflex is strong but you didn't care about it. You ravage her mouth with your huge cock until her whole face turns red her eyes began tearing up as well.

You let her breathe and you didn't expect her to hold herself that good. She didn't tapped out. 

"My past boyfriend didn't even have the chance to hold a candle against you." She said while still running out of breath. 

"Bend over."

She did what you demanded and did it as fast as she could. You spit on your cock and started teasing her entrance, you are making sure that it will go in smoothly. 

"Please! Daddy, f-fuck me please!!" Pleading for you to fuck her. 

You make her bend more and her face were rested against the bed by placing your hand in her back before slowly thrusting your cock into her. 

"F-fuck, d-daddy you are too b-big!" You can hear her whine but you still slid your member slowly. She moans louder as she felt that you are going deeper and deeper into her cave. 

"So fucking tight!"

You move your hips with a rhythm making her painful experience into pleasure. She started moaning like little slut who needs more. 

Minutes passed and you begin fucking her in a normal pace and you still didn't put all of your length inside her. "Daddy, fuck Chaeryeong like a cocksleeve. I want it all please!" She plead, her head turned to her shoulder to make an eye contact. You can't resist her lustful eyes. 

You assisted her into a missionary and lift both of the legs into your shoulders. Aiming your cock into pussy once again and started pounding the shit out of her. A mating press.

"Aaahh! Shi-shit! DADDY! DON'T STOP P-PLEASEEEE!" 

You keep fucking the idols beneath you, her sexy moans is like a music to your ears. Every press, her moan became louder. 

"I'M CUMMING DADDY! PLEASE. LET ME CUM!!! AAAAH!~ FILL ME UP WITH YOUR THICK AND DELICIOUS CUM!!"

You pressed one harder than the rest and let the idol experience orgasm. Several burst of your spunk was released inside Chaeryeong. You pulled out and her eyes were rolled back, tongue sticking out while she squirts. Your load and hers was mixed and flowing out of her pussy.

"I was wondering why can't i see you downstairs. It turns out you are here Daddy"

You turned your head to see whose voice was that and you see Yuna standing there in the doorway which is widely open. 

"I thought you'll be asleep." And walked towards her. The idols head was in the same height as your nipple, and she's the tallest of the bunch. 

"Well, i'm planning give you a head and drink your cum before i go to bed but i heard screaming and moaning and it lead me here." She looked at her unnie passed out because of pleasure. "Suho Oppa, i want what she had just now."

"You have a boyfriend remember?"

"I don't care, i just want to be fucked hard by you. I can also call you daddy. Please?" 

"Then kneel."

You commanded her, she let her tongue out, and you slapped her face and tongue with you huge dick multiple times. 

She sucked your dick like the little slut that she is and continued to bob her head, lust filled her eyes you can resist such look and you began fucking her small mouth. 

You cupped both of ther cheeks as she gags trying to do further from her limit. This cheating little bitch pushed her limit and got past what she did earlier in the morning.

Her eyes began tearing up, you feel the back of her throat everytime you thrust. This made her more lustful and horny as she undress herself and started toucher herself. 

Yuna held onto your thighs because of how hard you fuck her throat, however her eyes never falter and keeps looking at you as if she's saying she's a good slut and reward her. 

You didn't even warned her about you cumming and just grabbed the back of her head and shove it deeper into her throat and suddenly ropes of thick cum filled her mouth. 

Having your dick down an idols throat isn't news to you as you continue fill the little slut's mouth. 

Withdrawing your cock gives a pleasureable sensation to the young idol. She showed how filled her mouth with your hot cum and swallowed it. Not a single drop wasted. 

"Your cum really is best! Did i do a good job?" She asked while her face was still smeared with saliva and cum from Chaeryeong when you slapped her earlier. 

You put your hand on the top of her head and messed her hair as you nod. 

Her eyes were filled with excitement and accomplishments as she giggles. 

The other idol who passed out was already awake and masterbaited while watching you violate their maknae's mouth. 

"That was so hot." Chaeryeong went to the side of Yuna. "So, are you also a cocksleeve now? Cuz i am." she's tempting the girl by teasing her and the maknae gave in. 

"Yes, yes i am! So what?"

"So, i am still the sunbae even when we became both cocksleeves. We can't do anything about that."

"Shut up Unnie!"

"Yuna, we are not done. Come here!" Pulling her into the older womans bed. You lay down and position her into Full Nelson and the maknae's reaction was half excitement and half nervousness. 

"I saw this on one of the porn Yeji Unnie watched last week, i can't believe i'm going to experience it now" she said while mounting your dick. 

"You ready?"

"Yes, please use my slutty little pussy daddy!" 

Thrusting upward suddenly made the idol moaning unexpectedly loud even Chaeryeong was startled. 

"Don't stop! Don't fucking stop daddy please!!" 

"I'm going to have a videochat with the unnies, i'll let them watch" Chaeryeong said like it's funny that their maknae was getting plowed so hard in their own home. 

Yuna keeps on shouting, shrieking and moaning because of the pleasure bestowed by you. Cursing here and there and the Daddy became Master in an instant. 

Her pussy was being mold to copy the shape of you cock. 

– 

"Ryujinnie~ Jisu-ya!! Chaeryeong is calling us" Yeji announce to her members. She answered the call and was surprise to see their maknae getting plowed by someone. 

Heat began circulating inside their bodies and envy filled their minds. They can't believe how such a huge cock can go in and out from a tight pussy like Yuna's. 

"Can you see this Unnies? It's Yuna's turn now, i passed out earlier after doing it and woke up to them getting intimate" Chaeryeong was focusing the camera to the other two who looks like they are the only people in the world. 

"You call that intimate? Was that a Full Nelson?" Yeji shouted as a response.

"Yes, Suho oppa wanted it and the little slut named Yuna just let him do what he wants, well. I did the same thing. I let daddy use me with no remorse." she giggled. 

"Isn't that position what you always wanted to do when you got a boyfriend?" Ryujin asked the leader of the group and she just nod her head as an answer. 

Lia can't speak because she's laser focused on how their Suho Oppa was fucking the maknae like that. 

All of the people got startled even the two people with no care about the world when Yuna's phone suddenly starts ringing. 

"You bitch! You're boyfriend's calling you!" Chaeryeong's voice was full of panic as she handed the phone to Yuna. 

"Answer it." They all heard what Suho oppa said. "Make sure to not get caught."

Yuna pressed the answer button, "Oppa? What is it?" Yuna asked. 

No one can hear the boy’s voice and suddenly Suho thrusted into Yuna. 

"Nnngh! No, no, nothing i hit my elbow to the wall." Yuna is doing all can she do to avoid getting caught. 

Yuna is still getting plowed while talking to her boyfriend. "Ryujin Unnie, do find what Yuna's doing a little thrilling?" Chaeryeong asked Ryujin who is processing what is happening.

"What do you mean?"

"We know that your boyfriend has been messing with other girl before you accepted him right? So doing the same thing as Yuna will not be considered cheating because your boyfriend did it when he's still courting you."

Yuna's moan starts getting louder and louder, the call already ended. 

"I'm just saying Unnie, Suho Oppa- i mean daddy has a huge cock and you'll forget about that stupid boyfriend of yours. Bye!" 

"Chaeryeongie has a point, that fucker has been fucking around while he's courting you. If you do it it's just revenge." Lia took the initiative to talk first. 

"Can i really do it?" Ryujin asked them, Yeji and Lia just nod at her as an answer. 

–

"He almost caught us daddy! Fuck! Ooh sh-shit! Yes!" Yuna has been super loud after the call ended. You are still fucking the shit out of her. Her eyes were same as the older member before. 

"You little slut, what if your boyfriend caught you and publish an article about you?" Chaeryeong sat beside us. 

"Aaah shit! H-he will n-not because i know how naive that guys is" she answered while moaning. "Daddy i'm cumming! I want to be filled with your cum just like unnie! F-FUCK!!"

You speed up the pace while still in the full nelson and fuck her deeper than before. 

Her moans is so full of lust that it makes you go a little harder. "Da-daddy you’re destroying me! Please, harder! FASTER!!" Hot thick cum started to shoot inside the idols used pussy. She's twitching like she's having a relapse. Pleasure overflows inside of her. 

You are pretty sure Yuna has the same expression as Chaeryeong when you came inside of her. And you were right on the mark when Chaeryeong showed you the video of the climax.

"Daddy look at her! Our maknae really is a bitch! How can somene who has a bf have this expression when doing the did with someone else?" She chuckled while teasing the younger idol who passed out too. "Such a horny bitch!

"As if you are not the same." I answered while looking at her. 

"Well, you are not wrong in that. I love how you fuck me hard. Anyways i'll let her sleep here tonight." She said and i decided to go back to my own room. But before i truly leave, i kissed Chaeryeong on her lips and marked her in the neck with a hickey. 

[crimsoncandy04]

Hi! you write such arousing posts…. Can I ask for sex after a fight in the car with Scaramouche

Anon🪭

Oooh...is this my first modern au commission? Alright let's do this!

(you didn't mention what kind of sex so I'm taking creative liberty here and imagining what kind of sexy things an irl Scaramouche would be doing basically.)

Enjoy;)

Your boyfriend was the absolute WORST. But due to being blackmailed by him into a relationship because you saw something you shouldn't have regarding his job, you had no choice but to put up with him.

He was such an asshole. Full of himself and never really kind or doting despite him clearly being jealous whenever you so much as even MENTIONED another man's name in conversation.

It was absurd. You thought that being one of the 12 CEOs of such a powerful political organization such as The Fatui would make him act with a little more class. But no. He was as ruthless as he was cold. You were no exception.

At least he was a field agent.

Which meant he was always away doing jobs in other countries most of the time.

You were usually left to your own devices. Not that you minded.

In fact, lately you had begun to use this free time to... entertain yourself.

And that entertainment involved your boyfriend Scaramouche's coworker, Tartaglia.

Gods he was so fucking good in bed.

Always so giving and attentive. Nothing like the usual one and done your partner was.

He'd hear the founder of the fatui had sent Scaramouche out again and within the hour he'd be at your manor with flowers and expensive chocolates in hand. Cock already hard and aching to be under your favorite black dress that you usually wore when seeing him. It always made your ass look so fucking great and obviously, Tartaglia was a man who knew how to appreciate a curvaceous lady like you as he'd do things like pound you from the back and smack your ass as he told you make it "tighter" for him. God could he last a while. You think he took it as a challenge sometimes.

You loved your little heated affairs with Tartles. But finally one night your luck would run out. And that was the night Scaramouche came back early from a failed mission to steal government secrets via an elite gathering.

He had been caught and was now being forced to take time off as the company founder (Ms. Tsaritsa) had to cool foreign tensions now and cover for her harbinger's mistake.

He had walked in on you both as Tartaglia had you bent over the sofa downstairs and immediately tore into him. He had grabbed Tartaglia by the back of his shirt and thrown him (Quite literally threw him) Into the wall behind you. You had quickly pulled down your dress just in time to see Scaramouche kick him in the stomach and pull out a taser he usually kept in his coat pocket. He slammed it against Tartaglia's neck and turned it on. Temporarily rendering the man unconscious as Scaramouche had moved faster than anyone you had ever seen and successfully caught Tartaglia off guard.

He then turned to you.

His indigo eyes were beyond livid. For a second you wondered if you were next. But to your shock and suspicion, Scaramouche simply repocketed his weapon and turned to leave. Only pausing to tell a nearby maid to clean everything up before he disappeared into another room entirely.

You immediately went to your room. The one that was just for you and your hobbies and hid for the rest of the night. Too terrified to face Scaramouche anytime soon. Maybe he knew you were hiding though. Because at some point you received a text from him in the middle of the night. It read;

"Tomorrow night, be outside the house and ready. I want to talk to you privately so we'll be going somewhere a little more secluded. Dress nice."

And that was that.

Oh fuck. He was going to kill and bury you wasn't he?

The time to leave came. You had decided to wear a rather short soft pink cocktail dress and white heels. It wasn't your best but you were trying to perhaps invoke some sort of psychological empathy in your boyfriend tonight by wearing "innocent" colors.

Maybe that was a terrible idea.

Because as you climbed into the passenger seat of his car and felt his gaze tearing you apart from the side, you wondered if he had had something else in mind when he originally asked you to dress nicely.

His tone was bitter.

"you've looked better. What? Ran out of stuff to wear after using them all to seduce every man you see perhaps?"

The fuck? I wasn't letting this slide.

"seriously? I'm not that desperate. I only met with Tartaglia a few times and only him. Maybe if YOU weren't such an asshole I'd have no desire to fuck another dick!"

His voice bordered on emotionless as he started the car now.

"i told you before, you ungrateful whore, I have a job to do. You are NOT a priority. In fact, many women would KILL to wear the things I buy you. To sleep in the place where you do, to be on their knees WORSHIPPING me no matter how I treat them. You should be grateful someone like me even bothered to look your way at all, bitch."

"oh really!? Someone who IGNORES me? Someone who BULLIES me? DENIES me ANY sort of company besides their own that even then they RARELY give me? If that's the kind of person you are then perhaps I no longer want to date you!"

He abruptly hit the breaks. Turning in his seat to face me as he suddenly grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his gaze.

"I give you everything and even now you whine like a spoiled brat for more. So is that it? You want attention? Hmm...I don't see why not."

He started the car again. Not bothering to speak to you after that.

Scaramouche drove you both to the edge of the city. It was snowing here still and appeared to be some kind of parking lot of a nearby abandoned factory.

You felt your entire body stiffen as he got out of the car and instead climbed into the back seat.

What was he doing?

His sharp tone suddenly caught your attention.

"get up. Don't get out of the car. Crawl over the seat."

Shivers ran down your spine.

But you did as told.

However just as you were attempting to squeeze through the gap in between the seats, he stopped you. Telling you to stay in the position you were in and open your legs more.

Your heart raced as you realized the only way to do that would be to keep your feet firmly planted on either seat in the front and to hold on to the head rests with your hands so you didn't fall.

You got into position, earning a small hum of approval from Scaramouche.

"just like that. Now don't move. If you do, I'll make you regret it."

Scaramouche then reached out and slid his hand under my panties. Three of his fingers were deep inside your pussy and almost a little too gently were they stretching you open and encouraging you to relax into his touch.

You felt a little moan leave your lips before Scaramouche pulled his fingers out of you then and instead tore off your underwear completely.

Your cunt was exposed to him fully now as you watched him pull something from his pocket then.

A small egg shaped vibrator that he carefully stuffed into your still aching cunt and then turned on using a small remote that came with it. Immediately it was set too high and you felt your legs tremble as the tiny device teased your insides and made you drip into the cup holder beneath. Scaramouche rubbed some of your wetness using his fingers again, from your pussy to your asshole. Your body shook a little now as you tried to instinctively close your legs only to be met with a hard slap across the face from Scaramouche.

"i told you to stay still you worthless cunt! How fucking dare you!"

Scaramouche eyed the area beneath you then. A cruel smile crossed his face as he went to coat his fingers in more of your delicious juices and then used it to coat the gear stick that was brushing against your ass. He whispered huskily in your ear

"fuck yourself with it bitch."

Confusion filled you.

"w-what? But I'm already-"

"use your ass. Don't make me ask again. If you refuse, I'll make you do something worse."

Scaramouche's threat was made plain and clear. And so as you slowly adjusted your footing and raised your ass to prepare to do the unthinkable, you felt tears begin to fall from your eyes.

Scaramouche just scoffed at you.

The cold plastic material slowly entered your tight hole as you winced at the sensation of being stretched so much. It took several long minutes but eventually with much sweat and tears, you got the gear stick to fit into your asshole.

"Bounce on it. Look at me when you do." Scaramouche commanded next.

You obeyed reluctantly, your pussy still aching and soaking wet as the vibrator continued to tease your g spot.

You found a rhythm and began to ride the excruciatingly large object as best as you could. A mixture of pleasure and pain filling every inch of your body as Scaramouche leaned back and watched you humiliate yourself. All the while he had freed his cock and had been jerking off to the sight of you. You moaned softly as you felt your climax approaching then. However the feeling of pleasure was cut short momentarily as you saw Scaramouche pull out his phone.

"don't stop. I didn't say you could."

Your body trembles.

"what are you -"

"giving you exactly what you wanted my lovely little slut. Attention. Now keep going. I want to see you cum from being punished like this. The way a cheating whore like you deserves."

Scaramouche had started recording.

And so you continued to do as you were before. You kept going until you felt your body shiver and your cunt pulse as you ended up squirting. Scaramouche just chuckled a little before continuing to record you as he stroked his cock in the other hand.

"you did well my sweet little bitch. How about we let Tartaglia see what a good girl you were for me today?"

You felt panic cross your mind at the thought.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

What Donald Trump did on Friday should make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Trump literally fabricated evidence in an effort to keep Ábrego García in a prison in El Salvador. You must understand that Trump would do that very thing to imprison anyone he wants to “disappear” --including you or your family. I can say that with 100% confidence because Trump is following the fascist playbook and that is what they have long done to critics or anyone else they simply want to make vanish. This is where we are as a nation. We have all seen Trump lie to support his claims. But the way his regime has defended the unconstitutional deportation of García means we have entered a new and far more dangerous for all of us. And I’m not talking about a “constitutional crisis,” I mean far worse. It began a few weeks ago with Trump and his regime claiming García was a “convicted” member MS-13 despite García never having been charged with any crimes since he came to the U.S. in 2011—let alone convicted. However, as we know, facts don’t matter to convicted felon Trump. So when the courts including the U.S. Supreme Court ordered that the corrupt Trump regime should “facilitate” García’s return to the U.S. because they failed to provide “due process,” they began to escalate their lies because it plays well with the MAGA base. Soon we had Attorney General Pam Bondi on Fox News claiming that García was “one of the top MS-13 members" and "a terrorist." Yes, she called him a terrorist as did others in Trump world. Then on Friday, Trump did something we never saw before from a US President. He posted a clearly fabricated photo of García’s hand with a tattoo on it that reads, “MS-13.” Trump wrote on the social media post accompanying that photo, “This is the hand of the man that the Democrats feel should be brought back to the United States, because he is such “a fine and innocent person.” Trump then added to make sure people looked closely at the photo, “They said he is not a member of MS-13, even though he’s got MS-13 tattooed onto his knuckles…” You can see the post below.

That photo is a fake. It’s a phony. It’s made up. Garcia does not have a tattoo that literally reads MS-13 on his hand as Trump wrote and his fabricated photo depict. If he did, the very first piece of evidence the Trump regime would have cited in this several week episode would have been that. It would have been the defining image of this case. And every Republican and Trump official would have been citing that tattoo in the media.

Backing that up are photos of García’s hand when he met Sen. Chris Van Hollen two days ago that show no such tattoo on his hand. (For example, see photos below from journalist Matt Novak who is a reporter at Gizmodo)

And García’s own lawyer on CNN Friday night confirmed he has no such tattoo. This should be bone-chilling. Trump has now fully embraced the dictator playbook be it people from the past like Hitler and Chile’s Pinochet to more contemporary figures like Saudi Arabia’s MBS and Trump’s close ally Vladimir Putin. They all have utilized trumped up charges and fabricated evidence in support of disappearing people they wanted gone. And it’s 100% what Trump is doing now.

[...] The goal of the Trump regime is exactly what a Ronald Reagan appointed federal judge wrote in a U.S. Court of Appeals opinion this week on the García case. As the judge noted, Trump regime wants the “right to stash away residents of this country in foreign prisons without the semblance of due process that is the foundation of our constitutional order.” The ruling continued, “This should be shocking not only to judges, but to the intuitive sense of liberty that Americans far removed from courthouses still hold dear.” We are watching Trump accuse a person of a crime then peddle lies and even fabricate evidence to support imprisoning that person. That is the power Trump and his regime are openly fighting for to use against anyone. And that is why for the sake of our freedom—and our families’—we must fight back.

The Trump Regime is fabricating evidence to falsely paint Kilmar Ábrego García as a “member of MS-13” to make the baseless and lawless justification to imprison Ábrego García in El Salvador and deny his return to the US even after the Supreme Court ruled against Trump ordering him back to the US.

[contemplatingoutlander]

MIAMI (AP) — Juan Serrano, a 28-year-old Colombian migrant with no criminal record, attended a hearing in immigration court in Miami on Wednesday for what he thought would be a quick check-in.

The musty, glass-paneled courthouse sees hundreds of such hearings every day. Most last less than five minutes and end with a judge ordering those who appear to return in two years’ time to plead their case against deportation.

So it came as a surprise when, rather than set a future court date, government attorneys asked to drop the case. “You’re free to go,” Judge Monica Neumann told Serrano.

Except he really wasn’t.

Waiting for him as he exited the small courtroom were five federal agents who cuffed him against the wall, escorted him to the garage and whisked him away in a van along with a dozen other migrants detained the same day.

They weren’t the only ones. Across the United States in immigration courts from New York to Seattle this week, Homeland Security officials are ramping up enforcement actions in what appears to be a coordinated dragnet testing out new legal levers deployed by President Donald Trump’s administration to carry out mass arrests.

How cruel is it to tell an immigrant that their deportation case has been dropped by the government, only to have them immediately arrested by ICE as they leave the courthouse?

Trump and DHS are doing this to increase their deportation numbers so Trump can look good to his MAGA base.

But I doubt that many of the people who voted for Trump expected him to go out of his way to arrest immigrants who are playing by the rules.

They more likely voted for Trump to remove the "criminal" migrants that he claimed were destroying the country.

This is the problem when one uses a lie to get elected. It's hard to find "criminal" undocumented immigrants if there actually aren't many.

Contrary to the "criminal" immigrant "invasion" that Trump paints, the crime rate (as measured by incarceration rates) for undocumented immigrants has been consistently lower over the years than for US-born citizens.

[See more under the cut.]

Not only do immigrants have a lower crime rate than US-born citizens, their increased presence is correlated with lower crime rates overall. According to the American Immigration Council:

"In 1980, immigrants made up 6.2% of the U.S. population, and the total crime rate was 5,900 crimes per 100,000 people. By 2022, the share of immigrants had more than doubled, to 13.9%, while the total crime rate had dropped by 60.4%."

Consequently, the Trump administration is going after easy to find migrants without criminal records who are following the rules and showing up for court hearings.

OR they are going after foreign graduate students who express opinions the administration doesn't like or who have been charged with minor infractions like speeding while driving.

OR they resort to dubious methods like looking at tattoos to try to prove that certain migrants are members of gangs like Tren de Aragua or MS-13. And given this absurd method, of course they have already deported many people to the notorious CECOT prison in El Salvador who were NOT gang members, including Kilmar Abrego Garcia, who had a court order NOT to be sent to El Salvador, and the 75% of the Venezuelans who had no criminal records, including Andry Hernandez Romero, the gay makeup artist.

All because Trump wants to create sound bites to convince his base that he is "tough on immigration."

It's all about the Sound Bites.

[edited]

____________ Meme background image source .

[dead3ve]

Hii hello, I’ve been loving your writing lately so I had a little req in mind :3

With a gen!neutral reader that’s an exchange student or just a new student from a European country, still settling into the school ^_^ Mixing in things like getting used to new environments, maybe having an accent or struggling with English could be a sweet little thing to add to make it more interesting.

Charlie x G!neu preferably, but whatever you see fit works wonders🫶🫶

Charlie Dalton x gn!reader

Summary: Charlie finds himself totally enamored by the new foreign student. The foreign student finds themself enamored by him.

Warnings: Inaccurate foreigner experience. (I don't know the American experience or the European experience) I do not know what it is like so I'm sorry if this offends.

Charlie was running late. Something that occurred often considering his lack of passion for learning. His lack of passion for Welton.

The rarity of this though, was that Charlie was running late to English. He usually made an effort to attend Mr. Keating's class, as it was the only subject he enjoyed and found of value.

During his speed-walk down the hall, he caught the murmurs of a feminine voice from the gap of an open door. It was a smaller room. Wasn't meant for a full class. The voice wasn't in English. This caught his interest. He slowed and stood behind the open door, so he'd remain hidden but still be able to see the people in the room.

The feminine voice belonged to a teacher. One of the newer staff at Welton. They were sat on the top of a desk, talking down towards another student. That student was sat hunching in on themselves, clearly unhappy, uncomfortable. Arms folded, picking at the pills of their uniformed, knitted jumper. The teacher, Ms. Danfords, started speaking after taking a deep, patient breath.

"If you want to be a part of your classes, you have to know the basics of writing and speaking in English. You're not practicing."

The hunched body at the desk spoke back in a foreign language sounding of harsh, round vowels and a bitter tone. Ms. Danfords spoke back in a commanding tone in the same language. The student quickly grabbed their books and made their way towards the doorway where Charlie stood.

They brushed past him. High shoulders, teary eyed, small, frustrated pants from their mouth. He heard a quiet "Pardon," as they passed him.

It fascinated Charlie. The round shape of the 'o' and the long sound of the 'ar' as they spoke to them. The length and cut of their hair. A different cut and shape but so flattering. Something he hadn't seen in popular American magazines.

He trailed after them for a few steps, absolutely fascinated until he realized how strange he would have seemed following a near-weeping stranger.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Charlie's thoughts had been consumed by the single word. "Pardon" was repeated throughout his mind. He was sat in silence, biting his nails for most classes during the day. The poets knew something had happened. Whether it was good or bad, they couldn't tell.

The last period of the day had finally arrived. Charlie, along with Neil and Knox sat down for mathematics. Another hated concept of Charlie's.

Charlie was slumped in his chair, thumb nail in his mouth and knee bouncing, when they walked in. The upset, new student from when Charlie was on his way to English. He watched as they took the seat right in front of him. He sat up, suddenly pin straight.

Neil took notice and leaned over to tap Knox on the shoulder and draw his attention to Charlie. They both snickered. and nodded in the direction of Charlie's neighbor. They realized what was wrong. Charlie was romantically interested. Charlie pulled a stern look, silently telling the boys to stop it.

Charlie leaned forward in his chair, chest against his desk in front of him, ready to speak his first words to the new student. That was until Dr. Hager walked in.

The new student flinched at Hager and then flinched again at the proximity of Charlie behind them. Charlie quickly gave a "Sorry" and sat back in his chair. Rigid, cringing from the interaction.

Little did he know, the student had suddenly realized who it was behind them. The boy who was meant to be funny, but they didn't understand his jokes. The boy who spoke to fast for them to understand, yet he was the most interesting. The handsome boy that was so concerned at seeing them crying. They were invested in knowing this boy.

The wide vowel he spoke when apologizing to them. 'Sorry'. It sounded so different. So nasally. So modern. Whatever Dr. Hager was talking about didn't make sense, and this time it wasn't because of the language barrier.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Soon, they found themselves slowly turning in their chair. Just a little. They wanted to see the boy again. Charlie's cocked brow and half smile.

The boy looked up as he heard their chair squeak. His pencil in his hand frozen above his exercise book. The pair both froze in silence. Looking at each other. The girl was biting their lips. Fearful of what he thought of them.

Weak, sad, foreign, strange.

Charlie was thinking of something charming to say to them.

I like your hair. Never seen anything like it before.

Instead, Charlie suddenly remembered their previous panic. Their sad eyes and hunched shoulders. He was suddenly asking if they were okay.

"I'm fine." They spoke defeatedly. Maybe Charlie did see them as sad. "I'm sorry you saw that, Charlie."

"I'm sorry you find this so difficult." Charlie spoke in a whisper. Sincerity was heard in his voice. It made them feel better and give a small smile to the boy.

Their lips caught Charlie's attention when curved into a smile. He smiled back, toothier this time, still focused on the curve of their mouth. Charlie suddenly had a thought. A very good one.

"How come I haven't seen you at study hall?" Charlie questioned quietly. Dr. Hager was blabbering on still. It was pure luck Charlie hadn't been shut down by the girl or Hager.

The girl looked away slightly. "I don't know..." They hesitated. The classroom was already a foreign land most of the time. They didn't want to put the students who used study hall as a break in an uncomfortable situation. "It would be hard for me."

"C'mon," Charlie had leaned forward in his chair, it squeaked noisily.

This interrupted Hager.

"Dalton," Dr Hager's stern voice echoed in the silent classroom. Most students looked up. Those who didn't stopped working to listen. "Mingling or equating, Mr. Dalton?"

"Uhm..." For the first time, Charlie sweated under the question of a teacher, longing for a comeback. "Both?" He was questioning himself at this point.

"Dr. Hager," A third voice shocked Charlie. It was them. The European he was slowly befriending. "I didn't understand something. He was helping me."

"Well," Hager hesitated. For the first time, someone had made him fumble over his persecution of punishments against Welton students. "Perhaps ask me for confirmation next."

Heads bowed again, back to their books as Dr. Hager turned back to the chalk board. Charlie stayed looking at the back of the student's head. He was amazed, shocked at how they'd shut Hager up. Suddenly, the girl turned to look at him again.

"If I go to study hall..." They hesitated. Was this a stupid idea? They thought. Before they continued, Charlie butted in.

"I'd sit by you." He spoke quickly, he tried to rectify his offer, thinking of it as too forward. "But if you want me to do that, I mean."

The European smiled softly at them and nodded. "I think I would like that, Charlie."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Dennis Goris :: @DennisGoris :: #DueProcess

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

April 17, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Apr 18, 2025

Today, Senator Chris Van Hollen (D-MD) posted a picture of himself with Kilmar Abrego Garcia, the Maryland man whom the Trump administration says it sent to the notorious CECOT prison in El Salvador through “administrative error” but can’t get back, and wrote: “I said my main goal of this trip was to meet with Kilmar. Tonight I had that chance. I have called his wife, Jennifer, to pass along his message of love. I look forward to providing a full update upon my return.”

While the president of El Salvador, Nayib Bukele, apparently tried to stage a photo that would make it look as if the two men were enjoying a cocktail together, it seems clear that backing down and giving Senator Van Hollen access to Abrego Garcia is a significant shift from Bukele’s previous scorn for those trying to address the crisis of a man legally in the U.S. having been sent to prison in El Salvador without due process.

Bukele might be reassessing the distribution of power in the U.S.

According to Robert Jimison of the New York Times, who traveled to El Salvador with Senator Van Hollen, when a reporter asked President Donald Trump if he would move to return Abrego Garcia to the United States, Trump answered: “Well, I’m not involved. You’ll have to speak to the lawyers, the [Department of Justice].”

Today a federal appeals court rejected the Trump administration’s attempt to stop Judge Paula Xinis’s order that it “take all available steps” to bring Abrego Garcia back to the U.S. “as soon as possible.” Conservative Judge J. Harvie Wilkinson, who was appointed by President Ronald Reagan, wrote the order. Notably, it began with a compliment to Judge Xinis. “[W]e shall not micromanage the efforts of a fine district judge attempting to implement the Supreme Court’s recent decision,” he wrote.

Then Wilkinson turned his focus on the Trump administration. “It is difficult in some cases to get to the very heart of the matter,” he wrote. “But in this case, it is not hard at all. The government is asserting a right to stash away residents of this country in foreign prisons without the semblance of due process that is the foundation of our constitutional order. Further, it claims in essence that because it has rid itself of custody that there is nothing that can be done. This should be shocking not only to judges, but to the intuitive sense of liberty that Americans far removed from courthouses still hold dear.”

“The government asserts that Abrego Garcia is a terrorist and a member of MS-13. Perhaps, but perhaps not. Regardless, he is still entitled to due process.” The court noted that if the government is so sure of its position, then it should be confident in presenting its facts to a court of law.

Echoing the liberal justices on the Supreme Court, Wilkinson wrote: “If today the Executive claims the right to deport without due process and in disregard of court orders, what assurance will there be tomorrow that it will not deport American citizens and then disclaim responsibility to bring them home?” He noted the reports that the administration is talking about doing just that.

“And what assurance shall there be that the Executive will not train its broad discretionary powers upon its political enemies? The threat, even if not the actuality, would always be present,” he wrote, “and the Executive’s obligation to ‘take Care that the Laws be faithfully executed’ would lose its meaning.”

After Federal Reserve chair Jerome Powell’s warning yesterday that Trump’s tariffs will have “significantly larger than anticipated…economic effects, which will include higher inflation and slower growth,” and his statement that the Fed would not cut interest rates immediately as it assesses the situation, Trump today began attacking Powell. Trump wrote on his social media site that Powell is “always TOO LATE AND WRONG.” His missive concluded: “Powell’s termination cannot come fast enough!”

Firing Powell would inject yet more chaos into the economy, and the White House told reporters that Trump’s post “should not be seen as a threat to fire Powell.” Hedge fund founder Spencer Hakimian posted: “Cleanup of orange vomit on Aisle 3.”

There seems to be a change in the air.

Three days ago, on April 14, Michelle Goldberg of the New York Times wrote that the vibe is shifting against the right. Yesterday, former neocon and now fervent Trump critic and editor of The Bulwark Bill Kristol posted a photo of plainclothes Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) Officers kidnapping Tufts University graduate student Rümeysa Öztürk, and commented: “Where does the ‘Abolish ICE’ movement go to get its apology.”

Today, in the New York Times, conservative David Brooks called for all those resisting what he called “a multifront assault to make the earth a playground for ruthless men” to work together. He called for a “comprehensive national civic uprising” that would first stop Trump and then create “a long-term vision of a fairer society that is not just hard on Trump, but hard on the causes of Trumpism—one that offers a positive vision.”

Brooks is hardly the first to suggest that “this is what America needs right now.” But a conservative like Brooks not only arguing that “Trump is shackling the greatest institutions in American life,” but then quoting Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto to call for resistance to those shackles—“We have nothing to lose but our chains”—signals that a shift is underway.

That shift has apparently swept in New York Times columnist Bret Stephens, who is generally a good barometer of the way today’s non-MAGA Republicans are thinking. In an interview today, he said: “[M]y feelings about not only Trump, but the administration, are falling like a boulder going into the Mariana Trench. So the memory of things that this administration has done, of which I approve, is drowning in the number of things that are, in my view, reckless, stupid, awful, un-American, hateful and bad—not just for the country, but also for the conservative movement.”

Stephens identified Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance’s bullying of Ukraine president Volodymyr Zelensky in the Oval Office as the event that turned him away from Trump. “America should never treat an ally that way, certainly not one who is bravely fighting a common enemy,” he said. Stephens also noted the meeting had “delighted” Russia’s president Vladimir Putin, who is now “emboldened…to press the war harder.”

We have been in a similar moment of shifting coalitions before.

In the 1850s, elite southern enslavers organized to take over the government and create an oligarchy that would make enslavement national. Northerners hadn’t been paying a great deal of attention to southern leaders’ slow accumulation of power and were shocked when Congress bowed to them and in 1854 passed a law that overturned the Missouri Compromise that had kept slavery out of the West. The establishment of slavery in the West would mean new slave states there would work with the southern slave states to outvote the North in Congress, and it would only be a question of time until they made slavery national. Soon, the Slave Power would own the country.

Northerners of all parties who disagreed with each other over issues of immigration, finance, and internal improvements—and even over the institution of slavery—came together to stand against the end of American democracy.

Four years later, in 1858, Democrat Stephen Douglas complained that those coming together to oppose the Democrats were a ragtag coalition whose members didn’t agree on much at all. Abraham Lincoln, who by then was speaking for the new party coalescing around that coalition, replied that Douglas “should remember that he took us by surprise—astounded us—by this measure. We were thunderstruck and stunned; and we reeled and fell in utter confusion. But we rose each fighting, grasping whatever he could first reach—a scythe—a pitchfork—a chopping axe, or a butcher's cleaver. We struck in the direction of the sound; and we are rapidly closing in upon him. He must not think to divert us from our purpose, by showing us that our drill, our dress, and our weapons, are not entirely perfect and uniform. When the storm shall be past, he shall find us still Americans; no less devoted to the continued Union and prosperity of the country than heretofore.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[darkmaga-returns]

Sen. Chris Van Hollen, D-Md., recently flew to El Salvador "to show solidarity" with MS-13 gang member Kilmar Abrego Garcia -- who was deported after being in the U.S. illegally -- and his family.

Stephen Miller, White House deputy chief of staff for policy and Homeland Security advisor, said during a Monday press conference that once President Trump made MS-13 a foreign terrorist organization, Garcia "was no longer eligible, under federal law … for any form of immigration relief in the United States … and had to be returned because of the foreign terrorist designation."

Fortunately, Nayib Bukele, president of El Salvador, refused to see Van Hollen. (Attorney General Pam Bondi had previously stated that it was "up to El Salvador" if the country wanted to return him.)

House Democrats have been actively discussing plans to send an entire congressional delegation (CODEL) to El Salvador to investigate the conditions faced by criminal deportees at the now famous CECOT prison facility.

Sen. Cory Booker, (D-NJ), and Van Hollen have been among those involved in the planning, but reports indicate that numerous Democrats have expressed interest in making the trip.

Every time we think Democrats can’t get any more insane, they prove us wrong. It is truly remarkable. And every time we think they can’t possibly be any more blatantly disdainful of American citizens, they become clownishly, preposterously more so. The purported 21% to 29% that support them must deeply despise themselves as well as their country.

[rdng1230]

Random Thoughts about the Ricken book Pt. 1

“I am the youngest son of renowned performance artists Bob and Grace Hale, known collectively as HumpDumpster, though I have sought for decades to distinguish myself from their intellectual shadow.” Starting off strong here with a healthy dose of wtf. But I do think it makes so much more sense why Ricken is the way that he is.

“I am a friend to birds, the earth, the arts, the elderly, the destitute, and the upset.” I can't remember the exact quote but this is phrased exactly the same as one of Ms. Casey's "Your outtie is _____" statements. Which could mean nothing....

“Statistically, your reaction almost certainly fell into one of five categories, and figuring out which one is deeply instructive in determining your You.” It's giving the "Just group off the numbers and put them in the bin" although there are four bins not five.

So we now know the peanuts exist in universe. and not sure if "Caesar Augustus invented democracy" is a serious timeline change or Ricken being stupid.

“my conception and birth took place in a small theatre behind a defunct perfumery in Western Oregon, as part of a nine-month performance art piece originated by my parents titled “Smells Like Afterbirth, F**ker.” woooooboy. Ok so we know that Oregon exists in this timeline, or is Western Oregon the state??? We know that our characters live in a state abbreviated as PE, and the lumon video stated more countries than there are.

“Though I cannot remember my birth performance, the knowledge of it has always brought me great joy. Knowing that a version of me, even one I don’t recall, brought meaning and profundity to so auspicious a coterie of persons, infused into my young life a deep sense of purpose.” Again, it is now very easy to figure out why the innies latched onto this so hard.

“HumpDumpster moved on to new pieces, including 1992’s critically lauded “Cheers, F**kers,” in which they held a Boston bar at actual gunpoint for 36 hours, leading to a quasi-substantive prison term. This and other endeavors led to long stretches where I was alone, and it was in these silent periods that a grim and intrusive resentment — of my parents, my lineage, and even myself — began to take hold.” I wanna know who actually wrote this. Was it a writers room thing? was it a group effort? But yeah again, explaining why Ricken is the way that he is.

It actually frightens me that Koko the signing Gorilla exists in this universe. If Lumon lays one manicured finger on her I will throw hands.

“I put my head very near the wig and noticed that it emitted a dull hum. Perhaps the dear lady had also lost a hearing aid, which had become caught in the wig and was now fritzing in the dew. It was at this moment that I felt my wife place a guiding hand upon my back. “Okay Ricken, honey, that’s a beehive,” she whispered affectionately. Almost sensually.” I audibly cackled holy shit. I can hear this in Devon's voice so clearly, she has suffered more than Jesus. Leave your husband babe, I promise I'll treat you right.

“In my defense, I’d never seen a non-industrial beehive before. I’d interned in a honey plant as a young scholar, but wild bees were as foreign to me as the lush hills of Belgium. I couldn’t help but laugh at the misshapen nest, so divorced from the perfectly constructed factory hives I’d come to know in my youth.” Goddamn, Lumon out here gettin' the bees too.

I delighted in how they darted hither and thither, thoroughly convinced of the dire importance of their work. How like human beings they are, I thought. It was only upon later reflection that I realized this observation was not merely hilarious, but devastatingly profound.” Local man discovers the concept of empathy, more at 11.

Wow, Gemma really was the only person nice to this guy huh? :(

Sister Act also exists....

ok PA exists as well

“I myself ascribe to no defined religion, though certain experiences endow me with a potent sense of the divine: Holding my wife’s hand as we fall asleep.” WHICH IS WHY YOU BETTER TREAT HER RIGHT OR I WILL

And that brings us to the beginning of chapter 4. I need a drink.